


See Amid the Winter's Snow

by Garonne



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: F/M, Gen, POV Mary Morstan, POV Mrs Hudson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 14:17:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3731983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garonne/pseuds/Garonne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Series of unrelated ficlets: Mrs Hudson's cigar, an adventure in a boathouse, Dr Watson's proposal, and Holmes' views on mistletoe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mrs Hudson's cigar

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Hades Lord of the Dead's Advent Calendar.

For Stutley Constable's prompt: Mrs Hudson's cigar

.. .. ..

Holmes was at a concert that evening, something modern and not at all to my taste. I had been intending to spend a few hours at my club, but a sudden flurry of snow sent me back home in search of gloves and a warmer coat.

As soon as I entered the front hall, I was met by the unmistakeable smell of cigar smoke, coming from under the door which led to Mrs Hudson's rooms. My surprise brought me up short in my tracks. I had never known Mrs Hudson to have a gentleman caller in all the years I'd known her, and that covered a period of almost two decades.

I was still staring at the door in amazement when it opened, and Mrs Hudson herself appeared.

"I wasn't expecting you back, Dr Watson," she said. "Will you be wanting dinner after all?"

"Ah, er - " I said, caught off balance.

"I see you're puzzled by the smell of my cigar," she added, in the most matter-of-fact tone possible.

"Your cigar?" I echoed, even more astonished now than before. A lady smoking a cigar was almost unheard of.

"I smoke one every year, on the 2nd of December. In memory of the man with whom I often used to share a friendly cigar and glass of port, many years ago."

I managed to gather my wits enough to say, "That would be Mr Hudson, I presume?"

There came the slightest of pauses then, before she spoke again.

"His name was Mr Carstairs." She cleared her throat. "There never was a Mr Hudson, as a matter of fact."

Mrs Hudson and I had known each other for many years by that point. We had in fact grown quite close, during those horrible years when we believed Holmes to be dead. I used to call around to Baker Street to share a pot of tea with her, and we would keep each other company, and try not to think about Holmes. However, in all our conversations, we had certainly never discussed such things as her past or private life, or mine.

"A respectable widow is an easier thing to be than an unmarried woman," she added with a small, unexpected smile, as though detecting my bewilderment. "Forgive me, Dr Watson. I am in a nostalgic mood tonight, it seems." She gave her skirts a quick smoothing down, as though to provide some punctuation to the conversation, and then said briskly, "I believe I asked you about dinner a few moments ago?"

"Oh - ah - no, thank you, Mrs Hudson. That won't be necessary. I just came back for my gloves."

"I wish you a good evening, then, Doctor."

"Good evening, Mrs Hudson," I echoed faintly.

Once back out on the street again, I walked slowly, deep in thought, scarcely noticing the snow. I was trying to imagine Mrs Hudson as a young woman, with the mysterious Mr Carstairs. That must have been the '50s or '60s, I supposed, when I was still in short trousers. It was hard to picture her thus, for even when we first met she had seemed to me to be a middle-aged widow. But in her youth she had shared cigars and port with her gentleman friend. I wondered what had happened to Mr Carstairs. I would certainly never know. All I knew was that he must have been a good man, to have left such fond memories of himself with dear Mrs Hudson.


	2. Mistletoe

For Wordwielder's prompt: Mistletoe

.. .. ..

Early December was always a time of conflict in my upstairs rooms, Mr Holmes and Dr Watson having very different ideas on what constituted suitable seasonal decoration.

This year, I had the misfortunate to be present in their sitting room when Dr Watson returned from the florist's shop laden with holly and mistletoe.

"Will you be wanting tea as well, Dr Watson?" I asked, for I was just in the process of clearing away the remains of Mr Holmes' tea and biscuits.

"No, thank you. In fact, I shall need the empty table."

And five seconds later, the table I had just cleared was covered in sprigs of mistletoe and holly, and Dr Watson was trying to coax Mr Holmes to lend him his biggest knife and wire-cutters.

"Surely a few candles would be sufficient," Mr Holmes was saying. "I don't see the need for all this greenery about the place. But you are determined to follow fashion, of course."

I knew Mr Holmes' supposed lack of Christmas spirit was mostly an act. Last year I had seen him suffer silently through the Irregulars' idea of Christmas carols without wincing once. At the end he had congratulated them on their enthusiasm and given them a shilling apiece. And mid-December usually saw him accompanying Dr Watson on the violin, as the doctor went through his own repertoire of carols. But they had had this argument about greenery every year.

"We cannot have Christmas without holly," Dr Watson insisted. "It's an important part of the celebration. Think of the symbolism, the crown of thorns of our Lord. And the mistletoe - well, I don't believe it has any religious meaning, actually, but it's certainly traditional." A small, reminiscent smile appeared on his face. "Why, I have very fond memories involving mistletoe from my younger days."

Mr Holmes sniffed.

"It's a parasite. And it's poisonous to boot." At that, his expression changed, suddenly becoming thoughtful. "May I have a few mistletoe berries, Watson?"

"If you want to experiment you can buy your own mistletoe," Dr Watson said sternly. Then he appeared to remember that this was not perhaps the best time to be intransigent. "That is to say, I might exchange a handful of berries for the loan of your wirecutters."

"How many berries?" Mr Holmes asked cautiously.

I left them to it.


	3. Igloo

Thanks to Lucillia for the prompt 'Igloo'.

.. .. ..

"I'm most grateful to you, Watson, for remaining here with me tonight," Holmes said suddenly.

We had been sitting in silence for the past half hour, in an overgrown boathouse on the Ryders' Berkshire estate, gazing intently through the branches overhanging the entrance. Beyond it, we had a view of the moonlit lake, its waters undisturbed since we had settled in for our vigil.

I had no idea what Holmes had been thinking about as we waited. Speaking for myself, I had been meditating on how cold and wet my seat was, and whether I might hope that Mr Alderney Ryder would put in an appearance before we both froze to death.

"Grateful?" I said. "Nonsense. I wouldn't have dreamt of being anywhere else."

The arrest of Alderney Ryder would be the culmination of a case we had been working on together throughout most of the month of December, and I certainly could not have countenanced leaving Holmes alone at the very end. I was surprised, nonetheless, by his remark. He rarely expressed regret for dragging me out of my bed, away from my dinner, or in any other way inconveniencing me.

I glanced sideways at him, but could barely even make out his silhouette in the dark, never mind his expression.

"It's Christmas Eve, after all," he said after a pause. "I believe I remember promising you an evening of carols and good cheer. I know how much you enjoy this season. But instead we're sitting here in the cold and the dark."

"I can put up with a little discomfort, Holmes, Christmas Eve or not. After all, our Lord spent Christmas in a humble stable."

"This is closer to an icehouse than a stable," Holmes muttered.

"Nevertheless, it is ridiculous of you to think I'd rather be anywhere else."

I heard a rustle of cloth, and felt a slight pressure on my arm, before Holmes withdrew again.

"Good old Watson," he said quietly. "Why, you - "

That was when we heard the splash of oars in the water, and saw Ryder's rowing boat glide into view. Perhaps we might be back in London in time for Mrs Hudson's Christmas lunch tomorrow after all.


	4. Hunter and Prey

A/N: Thanks to Catherine Spark for the prompt: Holmes is chased

.. .. ..

It is a very unpleasant thing for a hunter, to suddenly find himself the prey of another in his turn. He believes himself invincible, hot on the trail of his quarry - and then the next moment the tables are turned, and he's fleeing for his life.

I was in Prague when it happened to me.

I was in the middle of my grand task of dismantling Moriarty's European network. Moriarty himself was dead, lost in the falls of Reichenbach, two of his three chief lieutenants were in gaol, and I was hot on the heels of a third. The latter, a certain Sebastian Moran, turned out to be a more formidable opponent than I had anticipated.

He didn't know just who he was up against, of course, for the whole world believed Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street dead. That didn't stop him turning the entirety of Prague's underworld and most of its police force against me, before disappearing back to England himself. I discovered just how much cause I had to regret the unavailability of the network of acquaintances I myself had in London - and the absence of my faithful companion.

That night I lay curled up, sleepless, in the third class carriage of a train that was rattling its way across Moravia. I'd spent most of the day fleeing on foot across farmland. Now, my thoughts dwelt on England, and Watson.

In his stories, Watson often referred to me as a 'bloodhound on the scent', or a 'well-trained foxhound'. He overused the metaphor horribly, in fact. I didn't find the description particularly flattering to myself either. I now realised, however, how much more pleasant it was to be the hound than the rabbit.

In fact, I had particularly objected to the bloodhound label because it connotated an animal that hunted in packs, in cooperation with others of its kind. I had preferred to think of myself as a lone wolf.

Now, I resolved to return to London myself, to meet Sebastian Moran on my own ground - and more importantly, to call on the help of my loyal assistant again. If only I were back in Baker Street with him, by the fire, I should happily let him call me all the hackneyed metaphors he wanted, and enjoy it. And if he wanted to compare me to an animal that needed the help of at least one staunch companion - well, it would be a perfectly accurate description.


	5. An Angel in the House

Thanks to KnightFury for the prompt: an angel.

"The Angel in the House" was a poem by Coventry Patmore which became enormously popular in the late 19th century, and which described the Victorian ideal, a wife who was submissive, self-sacrificing, meek etc. I haven't actually read the poem... it's rather tedious!

This is a missing scene from The Sign of the Four, from Mary Morstan's point of view.

.. .. ..

Dr Watson sat on the sofa, looking rather anxious and uncomfortable. I sat in the armchair, unexpectedly overcome with emotion. The box which had once contained the Treasure of Agra lay unheeded on the table beside us.

After our initial joy on finding the iron box empty, and that accursed treasure at the bottom of the Thames, Dr Watson had seemed to realise that there was something a little inappropriate about the close embrace in which he held a woman whom no ties of betrothal bound to him. He stepped back, and we both blushed and cleared our throats, without managing to produce any actual words.

"Miss Morstan - " he began finally, but then appeared to lose his composure. He broke off quite abruptly. Up until now Dr Watson had seemed to me the calmest and most capable of men in all situations, and I couldn't help finding his present state of perturbation endearing. It was also extremely inconvenient, however, for I was quite incapable of saying anything sensible just then either.

"Won't you take a seat, Dr Watson," I said wildly, for want of anything better.

So we both sat, and went on being just as embarrassed as before.

"Miss Morstan," he began again, and then spoke in quite a rush. "Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"

This was far from being the first such proposal I had received. By my twenty-seventh year I had already received no less than four, all of them undesired, beginning with the music master at my school in Edinburgh, and ending with the man who had been my employer just before Mrs Forrester: a widower with four children, who had thought to take as a wife someone who would look after his children and who would be properly grateful to him for improving her station in life.

I had come to the conclusion that what every man in the world sought was a meek, compliant, self-sacrificing helpmeet, ever charming, graceful and above all interested in nothing beyond the comfort of her husband. In fact, I had begun to despair of ever marrying, and thought I should probably end up living out my days as a governess or lady's companion.

But here was Dr Watson, who had joined his friend Holmes in praising my resourcefulness and good sense; Dr Watson, who had relied on my assistance with the housekeeper Mrs Bernstone, and who had entertained me with tales of daring action and adventure. I simply couldn't help the broad smile that spread across my face.

"Of course," I said at once.

And as soon as I had spoken, all awkwardness and embarrassment between us was gone. We were both on our feet again in an instant, and in each other's arms. I was quite put out when Mrs Forrester came and interrupted us a few minutes later.


End file.
